I'm Only Sleeping
by Teambeatles
Summary: John Lennon just wanted a normal and peacefull life. So he payed Chapman to "kill" him. He now lives in a small city in Australia under an alias name. Nobody knows he's John, until he meets his biggest fan.


December 8th, 1980.

John Lennon and his wife, Yoko Ono, were returning to their home, The Dakota, at 1 West 72nd Street in Manhattan, New York. Just another average day of recording for a new follow up album. It was a very peaceful night; nothing out of the ordinary. Everything was tranquil until:

"Mr. Lennon!" Before Lennon could turn around, five gun shots were fired straight at his back, and all he could do was stagger into his home crying out, "I'm shot!" before collapsing. In just moments, help had arrived and Lennon was rushed to the hospital, but by the time they arrived, it was too late. Mark David Chapman, his assassinator, was immediately arrested and taken to jail.

A legend had died, just like that.

John lay awake in his comfortable hospital bed, reading the newspaper aloud, a smirk plastered on his face. "Think everyone'll believe that?" he asked himself as he set the paper down over his stomach. He stared up at the ceiling, his hands behind his head. He had successfully faked his own death. He paid Chapman beforehand to shoot him once, in his arm, where he'd leave no trace of vital injury. The other four shots weren't even aimed at him, but no one would be able to tell in such darkness. Lennon had been taken away before the press could arrive and scope out the scene. He had also begged the hospital not to release any information on his state of being alive to anyone. Thankfully, reporters were fooled by this trick, and Lennon was free from fame and the press, much to his own pleasure. His own wife and children were in on this perfectly thought-over plan, and even though they didn't really understand what his reason for doing this was, they went along.

There was a sudden, quiet knock on the door, interrupting John's little recap. "C'min." The door slowly opened to reveal none other than Yoko. John looked up at her and smiled. "'Ey, mother."

"Good morning, John." She sat at his bedside, looking a bit concerned. "How do you feel?"

"Great, great." He sat up, cautiously. "Chapman did a fine job," he said, showing her his bandaged arm, "I'll be able to come home tomorrow, and the paper's got everyone convinced I'm dead." He chuckled. "Everything worked out exactly as I'd planned."

"I'm glad." She nodded and added quickly, "I can't stay long. Julian is watching Sean. I just wanted to check in on you."

"A'right. I'll just see ye tomorrow morning."

Yoko leaned over to give John a quick peck on the cheek. "I might come back to see you later." She left the room, closing the door softly behind her, and John rolled over for a short nap.

Ringo Starr, a former Beatle, was the first to hear of his old friend's "death." This tragic news was such a shock to him and his family; it was hard for him to believe any of it. He rushed over to New York from the Bahamas as soon as he possibly could to see the sorrowful widow and her sons. There was nothing that could be done, but being there was the most he could do at such a depressing time. He pushed through the large crowd of people outside of The Dakota. They had all been calling to Yoko to get her to come to the window, which, to Ringo, wasn't exactly respectful. He shook his head as he entered the apartment, and the familiar music of Lennon faded as he climbed the stairs to John's old apartment.

Yoko was sitting on the sofa in the living room, surrounded by used tissues. She was sobbing into her hands as Julian gently rubbed her back. Sean stayed in his room to play by himself, confused that his mother was crying for no apparent reason. His daddy was fine. Why would anyone be sad? Ringo stayed a few hours to comfort Yoko and hold a somewhat cheerful conversation to keep her and himself from shedding any more tears. Little did he know, Yoko needed no comforting. For John hadn't even told his 'brothers' about his plan. He had them fooled as well.

Paul McCartney, another former Beatle and John's former co-writer, was the second to hear of this tragic news. He was just getting ready for another day in the studio when his phone rang. "Hello?" he answered. He wondered why his manager was calling this early, but he didn't think too much of it. "Mr. McCartney, have you checked the news today?" his manager asked. "No I haven't, I'm about to leave for the studio and I haven't had the time. Why do you ask?" he answered, confused. His manager told him to turn on the news and watch for himself. Paul casually walked into his living room and grabbed the remote. He flipped through the channels until an image of John flashed. He fumbled with the remote, trying to go back to it. Suddenly, Paul's face turned white. The broadcast was clear as day, a few subtitles running across the bottom of the screen, making it even more clear. He dropped the phone and fell to the floor. "Paul? Hello? Paul, you still there?" his manager asked. But Paul couldn't hear. He'd already started sobbing. He couldn't believe the news. His best friend - his brother - was dead. Or so he thought.

George Harrison, the youngest former Beatle, was woken up by a call from his manager on the morning of the 9th of December. "Olivia can you get that" he asked, half mumbling with his eyes still closed. "hello?" he heard Olivia say. There was a silence for a few minutes until Olivia said "thank you for calling" and hung up. "who was that?" George asked. "it was your manager, John got shot" George smirked when he heard that, "a little flesh wound wouldn't hurt him". Olivia tried her best not to cry, "no George, he's gone". George's smirk soon faded into a frown. His face got white and he felt a little dizzy. "g-gone?" he said not able to speak. George laid back on his bed and closed his eyes. Thoughts soared through his mind, these things don't just happen to John. He regretted not making up with him, for now he is gone and will never see him again. He fell back asleep, Hoping this was a dream. It wasn't.


End file.
